[Celeste]

The genetic Line of the Sol Empress, unbroken and steadfast for over a millennium, hung by a single frayed thread, and with it, the future of the Sol Commonwealth. 

Once an active Sol Priestess, committed to the greatest ideals of humanity, Celeste was now reduced to a fugitive on the run. Sliding down the gray plas-steel composite wall, she tucked her knees to her chest. Head bowed and trembling, a dark shadow crossed her heart. Her hand-held com viewer, bearing tragic news on its transparent screen, slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

I am now on my own.

Vivid memories flooded Celeste's mind, when a singular solemn quest bound five sisters of the Sol Way, each one a Priestess. With hands on the assassinated Empress Iona as she took her last breath, they formed the Order of the Phoenix and pledged their lives to resurrect the genetic line from the ashes. In a last desperate act, Emma Jannsen, the Empress' personal physician, extracted ova from the Empress and distributed them among the Order, who then scattered, hiding among the Commonwealth worlds. 

But someone powerful hunted them down, one-by-one.

I am the last. And they come for me.

It was dawn, or what went for dawn on the Meridian Space Port when the lights came on for another work cycle. Celeste had to leave soon before the shops opened, lest she be discovered. Eventually, a shopkeeper would come out into the narrow service alley, perhaps to dump trash in one of the metal waste dumpsters. She spent last night hidden inside the one that appeared to be the cleanest, catching a few hours of needed sleep.

Celeste chastised herself for what may have been a fatal mistake. She arrived here on a public transport, but the required genetic scan to board the starship revealed her location. They may already be here looking for me.

Rummaging through the black duffle bag looped over her shoulder, she retrieved a half-eaten meal bar, the last of her food. Searching the waste bins for edibles had been fruitless. The local program to recycle food scraps and other compostable materials was too well enforced.

Within view in her open bag, laid a metallic cylinder. She spun it around to reveal two small blinking green lights on a small control panel. A long cleansing breath blew past her lips.

This is the last hope. My purpose.

She withdrew a blue scarf from the bag, made of the softest of natural fabrics and representing the Earth sky, a gift from the Empress herself. After pulling her long dark hair into a bun, she wrapped the scarf around her head into a shemagh so that only her honey-cinnamon eyes were visible. Those pursuing her might tap into the port security facial recognition system, but it was not unusual for visitors from other worlds to cover their faces for reasons of cultural practice or to avoid contagions, despite the required immunizations. Most importantly, the scarf concealed the neck tattoo that marked her as a Sol Priestess.

She twirled a gun in her hand, an antique weapon purchased two days ago from a shady dealer. A revolving cylinder held six bullets, and a trigger pull initiated a controlled chemical explosion that propelled a projectile at high velocity, or so she understood. She sighed. This device went against everything she believed in as a Priestess, but these were desperate times.

Celeste walked out of the alley into the Market Strip and gasped as her face looked back at her in vivid detail. The public announcement screen mounted high on the curved ceiling labeled her as a wanted terrorist in bold Commonwealth standard script. 

An icy tremor born of desperation crawled down her spine. Years of noble commitment was negated by a single false accusation. Before today, those pursuing her had done so by more clandestine means. Now they leveraged the public.

With eyes turned down, she looked away as two port security officers strode by, wearing crisp white shirts and black trousers with pulse guns strapped to their belts. The Strip filled with people as the shopkeepers opened their doors and hung colorful banners announcing their wares. A deep breath helped calm her racing heart. The growing crowd might become either a safe haven or a greater risk.

Years ago, a compassionate Priestess took Celeste in, rescuing her from a spiraling life of self-ruin. She learned the Sol Way and devoted her life to it. Eventually becoming a Sol Priestess, she served as representative of the Empress, teaching the ideals and acting as legal arbitrator. Celeste had basked in public high esteem, but no more.

Striking as confident a demeanor as possible, Celeste paced across the Strip, clutching her bag tightly to her side. She stopped in front of the ticket board and scanned the departure schedule. Staying any longer in the spaceport was not an option, since eventually they would find her.

"My lady, do you journey?" A short, balding man with a full mustache came up to her and bowed slightly. A heavy cologne did not fully mask his body odor. "We have many fine ships and destinations across the Commonwealth. May I help you find your way?"

Celeste smirked under the scarf. For an added service fee, no doubt. She shook her head. "No thank you, sir. I only check the schedules."

Taking a public passenger ship again would be suicide, since those who wished her dead would be waiting at the destination. She scrutinized the cargo ship schedules for an independent hauler not tied to the Trade Consortium, someone who might neglect the interstellar travel regulations or bend them for a price. There were two scheduled for departure later in the day.

The man frowned and narrowed his eyes. A lip raised under his mustache to a sneer. He grasped her arm tightly enough to cause discomfort, pulling her back. His whisper held a sharp edge. "You are alone and defenseless here, Priestess. You would do well to heed my guidance."

She froze in place, adrenaline tingling her body. The edge of his black jacket fell back to reveal a pulse gun tucked into a holster.

Her whisper in return held its own edge. "And you would do well to remember that a Sol Priestess is never defenseless."

Acting on trained instinct, Celeste spun in his grasp and drove an elbow into his throat. He drew a raspy wheeze through an open mouth and put a hand under his chin. Wrenching her arm from his loosened grip, she turned and thrust a palm into his nose. The man's head snapped back and he staggered from the blow like a drunken dock worker. Rivulets of blood streamed from his nose, smattering a pattern of crimson drops on the floor.

He drew a pulse pistol, but another strike under the chin weakened his hold. She slapped the gun away, sending it spinning across the floor. Growling, he lunged. A step forward and a turn put her in position to execute a throw, flinging him over her hip and slamming him to the floor. As he fell, his hand raked through the air to snatch her scarf, pulling it from her head and revealing her face.

The gathered crowd looked on in shock, gasping at the violence. From the floor, he held a hand to his bloody nose and pointed, yelling in a raspy voice, "It's her, the terrorist!"

There would be no arguing that the charges were false, so she grabbed the scarf and ran. The two security officers she passed earlier took up the chase, pushing through the onlooking crowd. The plasma pulse that exploded overhead as she rounded the corner showered her with orange sparks and bits of gray plas-steel.

She sprinted down the alley, breathing fast and hard from the effort. After ducking into a partially open maintenance access door, she carefully locked it behind her. After a moment, muffled voices and footfalls passed by the door, but she knew this was only a temporary reprieve. Eventually, more security teams would come and surely this room would be searched.

Celeste re-wrapped the scarf around her head and made her way through a moist and dank narrow passageway lined with pipes and air ducts, some places barely wide enough for her to pass sideways. Foul-smelling water leaking from a mildewed pipe dripped on her arm and shoulder. She reached another door and peeked out into another service alley.

A hunched worker in greasy overalls dumped a barrel of food scraps into a grungy tank strapped to a motorized skid. Carelessly tossed aside, the barrel clunked to the floor, rolling to a stop at one of the vehicle's wheels. The man removed his green hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve, mumbling a curse. He tossed his hat into the open cab and, with a huff, grabbed the empty barrel and stomped into the back door of a tavern.

Celeste seized the opportunity, running to the skid and leaping into the small cab. The electric motor whirred as she took off. Putting on the workman's cap, she smiled. No one would take notice of a waste skid driving down service alleys toward the composter, which was located conveniently just beyond the spaceport bays. 

After a fifteen-minute journey, thankfully uneventful, she pulled over beside a cargo warehouse door. According to the departure schedule, two independent cargo spaceships docked nearby and would leave later in the day. She just had to find one that would take her.

She slunk through the door and held to the shadows along the walls, weaving within a jungle of stacked crates that towered over her. Only one dock worker was anywhere near, but he busied himself scrolling through a tablet viewer. 

Coming to the outer wall, she peered out a port window. The vista below stole away a breath with its stunning beauty. Lush green lands, white-topped mountains, and deep blue seas peeked out between swirls of white clouds on the terraformed planet below. The view reminded her of Earth, triggering a heart-felt sadness and clouding her eyes. The last time her feet touched humanity's home world, she witnessed the death of Sol Empress Iona.

A climber rode down a taught high-tech cable from the spaceport, the space elevator, taking people and cargo to the planet surface. The temperate planet, rich in resources, supported the busy spaceport. Looking at an angle, she could just make out the two cargo ships perched in the vacuum of space, each connected by two pressurized passageways to the dock.

Voices interrupted Celeste's gaze. She ducked down behind a crate and peered around the side. In the distance, two security men talked with the dock worker, one swinging his arm around toward the crate jungle. She had little doubt about the subject of their discussion.

There would be no time to negotiate a fare with a ship captain. Celeste had to get on a ship now and worry about that later. She tensed as old scary stories rose in her mind, those where a heartless freighter captain would expel a stowaway into the vacuum of space rather than give passage. These were usually told to keep mischievous children away from star ships, but like all such tales, there was some truth to them. She felt the gun in her bag. Just in case.

But which ship? The names of the ships appeared above the passageways, the Reynold and the Phoenix Star.

With little more than the appeal of a name, Celeste chose the Phoenix Star.

Her head jerked around at the hum of a motor and crunch of wheels behind her. A loader-bot carried one of the large crates down the passageway toward the Phoenix Star. Slinging her bag across her back, she jumped up on to the side of the crate and clung to the ribbed structural frame. The bot deposited the crate and her in a nearly full cargo bay within the spaceship. She jumped off and crouched in the shadows between crates.

Soon after the bot returned to the dock, the cargo bay double doors closed with a squeal and a hiss. A cold sweat broke out over her body as an uncomfortable feeling of helplessness swept through her core. Her fate now became little more than a roll of the dice, a destiny outside of her control.

Celeste drew her knees in, cradling her bag with its precious content in her lap. Her mind settled back to her four murdered friends, martyred for a cause that she initiated.

My dear friends, I am so sorry. I did not mean for you to die.

The weight of her burden, now carried alone, bore down on her like a collapsing star. The loneliness, fear, and grief that led her to this desperate point became too much to contain. She lowered her head and sobbed.